“Oh! Father dear, I neglected that, but I intinded—I intinded—Where's Pether!—bring, bring—Pether to me!”
“Turn your thoughts to God, now, my dear. Are you clear enough in your mind for confession?”
“I am, Father! I am, avourneen. Come, come here, Pether! Pether, I'm goin' to lave you, asthore machree! I could part wid them all but—but you.”
“Mrs. Connell, for Heaven's sake.”—.
“Is this—is this—Father Mulcahy? Oh! I'm ill—ill!”—
“It is, dear; it is. Compose yourself and confess your sins.”
“Where's Mary? She'll neglect—neglect to lay in a stock o' linen, although I—I—Oh, Father, avourneen! won't you pity me! I'm sick—oh, I'm very sick!”
“You are, dear—you are, God help you, very sick, but you'll be better soon. Could you confess, dear?—do you think you could?”
“Oh, this pain—this pain!—it's killin' me!—Pether—Pether, a suillish, machree, (* The light of my heart) have, have you des—have you desarted me.”
The priest, conjecturing that if Peter made his appearance she might feel soothed, and perhaps sufficiently composed to confess, called him in from the next room.